Concerning Freaks
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: Sherlock goes beyond the pale at a crime scene. Set during season 2, sometime after the Pool incident.


This story was prompted by two things I was musing upon recently. The first was this: if you tell a person something often enough, then they'll most likely end up believing it, even if it's not true.

The second thought was to do with this line: "I feel like I'm the worst so I always act like I'm the best", in reference to Sherlock. (It's a lyric from the insightful song 'Oh No!' by Marina and the Diamonds - _multiKitten_ has done a seriously good Sherlock music video to this song over on youtube).

Okay, enough from me. This story is set in season 2 in that interim time after the pool incident but before Irene Adler. Feedback is always very welcome.

* * *

Concerning Freaks

by Mally O'Jack

John arrived at the small terrace house, out of breath after rushing straight from the clinic. A policeman standing guard at the yellow tape recognised him and waved him under.

He knocked on the open door before entering. "Sherlock?"

"Up here," Lestrade called.

He wiped his feet on the mat and made his way upstairs, manoeuvring himself around the stair lift. There seemed to be a bit of a commotion going on. He followed the sound of the noise into the bedroom.

The first thing he saw was the body of an elderly gentleman laid out on the bed, surrounded by Anderson and a couple of his forensics team. In the corner of the room, looking very awkward, was Lestrade, who was trying to calm down an old lady – probably the wife – who was having full-on hysterics. There was no sign of Sherlock.

"Out the way," said a voice behind him.

"Sorry," he said automatically, and he stood to one side to let Sally Donovan through. She was carrying a mug of tea.

"Sir?" She handed the mug to Lestrade.

"Here, Mrs. Briggs," Lestrade said in a loud, authoritative voice, "this will make you feel better."

"I'm still putting in a complaint," Mrs. Briggs wailed. "It's not decent, what that man did. Not decent at all."

"I know, Mrs. Briggs," Lestrade said, still holding the tea out to her, "just try and get this down you."

As Lestrade continued his attempts to console the elderly lady, John touched Donovan's elbow briefly to get her attention. "What happened?" he said quietly. "Where's Sherlock?"

Donovan glared at John, and her expression was as angry as he'd ever seen her. She indicated towards the door, and John followed her out into the relative privacy of the landing.

"That _freak_," Donovan said, and her voice was actually shaking, her eyes burning, "gets off on kissing dead bodies, now, does he?"

John stared at her. "What?"

"He practically snogged that corpse in there. Did it right in front of the wife. She was already agitated, and now - " She gestured at the bedroom where the old woman was still crying.

Her words made his stomach turn, but still, overriding that, was concern for Sherlock. "Where is he?"

"Went home, didn't he?"

"Donovan," Lestrade called then from the bedroom.

"I told him he was sick," she said, leaning close to him, invading his personal space, "sick in the head. The DI made him leave, and you know what that freak did?"

He was aware he was clenching his fists, his jaw. His eyes flicked to her face and away again.

"He blew me a kiss. With the wife standing right next to me."

"Donovan!"

"Coming," she said, throwing him another dark look before leaving.

* * *

He stayed out on the landing, rigid, tense, as if standing to attention. Confusion and disappointment vied for dominance. What the hell had made Sherlock act like that?

Lestrade came out then and let out a sigh. "Hopefully Sally can calm her down. A woman's touch and all that."

"Yeah."

They stood for a moment, both awkward in one another's presence.

"Look, Greg, what happened?"

Lestrade looked at him, serious. "I thought the death was suspicious, so I asked Sherlock to come and have a look. Turns out the poor sod was poisoned, by his care worker apparently. The old cliché about the will."

John stayed quiet, waiting.

"There was a sealed letter on the bedside cabinet and Sherlock was convinced there was some sort of poison on the envelope seal. So he..." Lestrade cleared his throat, "he verified it by tasting the victim's tongue."

John smiled tightly. "Bit unconventional."

Lestrade gave a weary half-shrug. "I'm getting forensics to check it out. The wife wants to put in a complaint, but hopefully Sally can talk her out of it. Wouldn't exactly look good for me or the Met if she finds out Sherlock isn't even on the Force."

John looked over Lestrade's shoulder. Donovan had her arm around Mrs. Briggs, and from the looks of it she'd managed to persuade the old lady to take the cup of tea. Donovan glanced up then, meeting his gaze. She still looked angry... but underneath the toughness, he realised that she was actually quite upset. Hurt, even. As if she couldn't believe someone could be quite so cruel and capable as to act like that.

John knew just how she felt.

"Look, mate, probably best if you make yourself scarce," Lestrade was saying.

"Yeah, of course," he said, dragging his attention away. He wanted to apologise for his friend's behaviour, but it wasn't his place to. It would only make matters worse anyway. So he just nodded to Lestrade and started down the stairs.

"He'll be in a foul mood," Lestrade called after him. "Just to warn you."

John smiled grimly to himself. Two could play at that game.

* * *

When he got back to Baker Street, he was all geared up and ready to give Sherlock a good ear bashing. Even if the detective was sulking in his room - he'd bloody well break the door down.

But when he unlocked the front door, a sound made him pause. The violin. As he climbed the stairs he heard it more clearly. Low notes drawn out like a moan, punctuated with sharp shrieks. It was an ugly, ugly sound, roiling and slimy.

John hesitated a moment, and then entered the lounge. Sherlock was stood with his back to the room, looking out the window as he usually did when he played. Despite the warmth of the flat he was still wearing his coat and scarf, the coat collar turned up as if to hide his face.

He tentatively took a seat on the sofa. Sherlock ignored him and continued to play on, the violin shuddering under his fingers. It sounded like the world's longest car crash.

This was how Sherlock was feeling, John thought as he listened. Usually rubbish at expressing emotions verbally, Sherlock was articulating them as best he could through the music. John's own musical tastes were pedestrian, but even he could hear the complex emotions swirling around in that whirlpool of noise. Definitely a not-good sound by any stretch.

And what was with the coat? Sherlock never played the violin with his coat on, it hindered his movements. Perhaps he was trying to make himself look bigger, more intimidating. Or perhaps he was subconsciously covering himself up, hiding from John, because he felt ashamed.

John purposefully kept his voice soft, neutral. "I met you at the house, like your text said. But you weren't there."

The violin snarled on.

"Lestrade told me what happened."

There was no change in Sherlock's expression, but the music – if it could be called that – became even louder, faster and faster, gaining momentum, grinding on in its awfulness. There was an indignant banging from the floor below – Mrs. Hudson, probably, pounding on the ceiling with a broom handle. John resisted the urge to put his fingers in his ears.

"Do you think you could give it a rest for one minute?" he shouted over the din.

The banging continued, and then suddenly Sherlock, in a fit of rage, whirled and held his violin aloft, looking for all the world as if he was going to dash it to the floor.

"No!" John launched himself off the sofa, catapulted over the coffee table and snatched the violin out of Sherlock's grasp. He shielded it with his body, cradling the violin as carefully and gently as if it were a new-born baby.

The banging downstairs stopped.

Sherlock was staring at him with those pale, unearthly eyes. "Do you really think I'd destroy a Stradivarius?" he said, annoyingly calm for someone who had looked as if he was ready to murder his violin – and Mrs. Hudson – not two seconds ago.

"Maybe," he said, feeling his pulse rate returning to normal.

"Why would you care, anyway? You don't even play the violin."

"Sort of not the point." He sat down again heavily on the sofa, clutching the violin to his chest, just in case Sherlock changed his mind. But Sherlock remained where he was, looking at him quizzically.

He took advantage of the calm. "Now tell me why you were being such a prat at the crime scene."

Sherlock's face twisted and he whipped the bow across the air as if cutting down an invisible opponent. "They're idiots, all of them. They missed everything of importance. If I hadn't confirmed the poison when I did then the trace would have evaporated by the time the forensics reached the lab - "

"I'm not talking about that," John said, interrupting him. "_That_ was amazing." Sherlock whipped the bow in his direction, a suspicious look in his eyes. "Not that you should make a habit of it," he said quickly, "and you could've given Lestrade and the others a bit of a heads-up before you did it. Probably shouldn't have done it in front of the wife either. But yeah, I think that was amazing."

There were very rare times when he was able to surprise Sherlock Holmes, but on each occasion he relished his friend's expression. Somewhat reluctantly he pushed on. "I'm talking about what you did afterwards. Winding Sergeant Donovan up like that. Blowing bloody _kisses_ at her, Sherlock, with the old lady looking on - " Sherlock scowled and turned away - "you're better than that."

The detective looked as if he wanted nothing more than to flounce out the lounge in an epic strop and take refuge in his bedroom, except he couldn't, because John was now in possession of his beloved violin. John had never even so much as touched the sacred instrument before, not even when he was polishing the flat, and now he was practically hugging the thing. It was like Sherlock couldn't bear to see someone else – even John – holding it. The violin was tethering him to the room.

"Wherever you go," John continued, "people are always going to do the name-calling thing and give you labels and misunderstand your actions. But that doesn't mean you have to act like they're right."

Sherlock kept on scowling, stalking around the lounge and slashing at the air with his bow as if casting some sort of demonic spell. "Can we dispense with the psychology lesson now, _Doctor_?_" _

"Would you just shut up and listen for one second?" he said, getting all hot and bothered despite himself, "I'm trying to help you."

"I don't want your help," Sherlock spat. "I just want my violin back."

Incensed, John got to his feet, the violin in one hand. "You know what I think?"

"I always know what you think."

He ignored the snide comment. "I think you believe all that stuff people say about you. You've always believed it."

Sherlock groaned impatiently and brought the bow down hard on the back of the armchair. "Please stop being tedious."

"You think they're right."

Then Sherlock rounded on him, the suddenness of it shocking him, his features twisted in barely restrained fury. "Give me back my violin."

He'd only seen Sherlock act like this before with Mycroft. He was dismayed to find that now he'd slotted into the Big Brother role - in both senses of the word. This was wrong, he was handling this all wrong.

"Okay," he said, trying to stay calm, "but I need to tell you some things first. Three things, in fact. Then you can have the violin back."

Sherlock hissed and stalked off to stand by the window. Despite this lack of encouragement, John kept going. "You can never delete what I'm about to tell you. You have to store it somewhere where you'll always remember it. Your hard drive, your memory space thing, your - "

"Mind palace," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, your mind palace. But you have to store it exactly as I say it, otherwise it won't work."

Sherlock sneered at him. "Why? Are they magic words, John?"

"Yes," he said, ignoring the sarcasm. "They are. Magic words. And perhaps I should have told you them before, but I thought you knew. Obviously you didn't, otherwise you wouldn't have acted like such a spectacular dick earlier. So shut up and listen."

Sherlock stuck his lower lip out, but he did not protest.

Feeling a little silly, he began. "John says I am not a freak." He paused to gauge Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock was standing very still. "John says I am a good man." Was it him, or did the tension in those shoulders relax just a little? "John says I am brilliant."

"What's so magic about that?" Sherlock said, but the words lacked the venom that they did before.

"It's magic because I said it. And that makes it true."

He thought Sherlock would at least comment on the arrogance of that statement, but surprisingly Sherlock didn't say anything. He just stood, studying him in silence. John felt a self-conscious flush start to rise in his cheeks. _Magic words...bloody hell...you were a soldier, for goodness sake. _

To cover up his embarrassment, he held out the violin. "Here." At that exact moment one of the strings snapped with a loud, almost cartoon-like twang, making them both jump.

"Oh, sorry -"

"It's not your fault," Sherlock said, taking the violin carefully from him and examining it. "I was perhaps a bit over-enthusiastic with my bowing earlier. It needs re-stringing." He proceeded to fetch a pack of strings from one of the desk drawers and sat down in the armchair. With a quick efficiency he started to remove the damaged strings.

John stood there in the middle of the lounge, uncertain. Was the argument over? It appeared so, but it didn't feel finished. "I'll... put the tea on then." No reply. "Sausage and beans okay?" He took Sherlock's silence as acquiescence.

John went into the kitchen, rummaging in the cupboard past the chemistry beakers and jars of hair until he found the can of beans.

He hated arguing with Sherlock, he really hated it.

He stood up, sighing. At least the detective wasn't making that awful racket any more. He cast his eye round the kitchen for a tin opener.

"John?" Sherlock called then.

"Yeah?" he said, looking in on the lounge.

Sherlock looked up from his violin. "Are they magic beans?"

For some reason he reflexively glanced down at the can in his hand, and then he smiled reluctantly. "How about a magic slap in the face?" Sherlock's mouth twitched at that.

He went back to making the dinner. He heard Sherlock plucking experimentally at the new strings, tuning them. Heard the scrape of rosin on the bow. Saw Sherlock shrug off his coat and stand by the window again. The music began as before, low and groaning. He winced as he turned the sausages, bracing himself for another round of Sherlock torturing his violin.

And then...

Then the violin began to soar.

* * *

_Finis_


End file.
